VII

After his morning’s exertions in the way of taming and domesticating a prince of the church, Hadrian was conscious that He required a change of emotions. His thoughts went to the next thing on His list⁠—the matter of Cardinal Nefski. That would be an exceedingly interesting experience. He did not want to intrude upon grief: but He was attracted by all singular phenomena; and the pathos of the pale young prelate seemed to be quite exemplary. Once in His secular life, George Arthur Rose had been taken by a doctor to see a man who had severed his throat in an unusual manner, using a broken penknife and cutting a jagged triangle, of which the apex missed the larynx, and the base the sterno-kleido-mastoid, avoiding by a hair’s breadth carotid and jugular. The doctor wanted a diagram of the wound made for the enlightenment of the jury which was to pronounce upon attempted suicide; and George had made the sketch from the staring speechless life, noted the furniture of the room and the aspect of his model, quite untouched by the man’s sensations or the horror of the event. Hadrian approached Cardinal Nefski with similar feelings. He was curious, He was psychically apart: but, at the same time, something of subconscious sympathy in His manner elicited the desired revelation. It was a ghastly one. Nefski, Cardinal Archbishop, had rushed to a little city in Russian Poland, occupied by anarchists, for the purpose of pleading with them. He arrived at sunset. There was a college there where a hundred and twenty lads of noble birth were being educated: among them, his own youngest brother, just seventeen years old. The cardinal was seized and crucified with ropes to the fountain in the market-square. Anarchists burst into the college: stripped its inmates naked; and flung them into the street before his eyes. He absolved each one dashed from the lofty windows. Some instantly were smashed and killed: others, who fell on others, were broken and shattered, but not killed outright. All night long, Nefski remained crucified. The anarchists must have forgotten him: for they left him; and at dawn someone, whom he did not know, came and cut him down. He remembered nothing more, until he found himself paralyzed, in a wagon with two priests, en route for Prague. Then he came on to Rome, hoping to lose the phantasm which continually occupied his sight and hearing⁠—the heap in the dark night, the growing groaning heap on red stones of white young bodies and writhing limbs like maggots in cheese, the pale forms strained and curved, the flying hair, the fixed eyes, continually falling, the cut-off shrieks, the thudding bounding ooze of that falling, the interminable white writhing. It was a ghastly tale, quite unimpassionately told. The young man still was in that stupor which benignant Nature sends by the side of extreme pain. His paralysis was passing away. He could walk easily now⁠—only he saw and heard. He spoke affectionately of his murdered brother: but he did not mourn for him.

Hadrian was moved. He put all the human kindness which he had, and it was not much, into His voice and manner. He really tried to comfort the cardinal. He quoted the splendid verses of the herald in the Seven Against Thebes,

being pure in respect to the sacred rites of his country,
blameless hath he fallen, where ’tis glorious for the young to fall.

Nefski seemed grateful. The Pontiff offered to remove him from Prague; and to attach him to the Court of Rome: but he preferred to return to his archbishopric for the present, at least, he said, until this tyranny be overpast. And, anon, he asked permission to retire. The sunlight dazzled him.

During the rest of the time at Castel Gandolfo, the Pope seldom was seen. A boatman rowed Him out on Lake Albano for an hour or two in the afternoon, while He occupied Himself in pencilling corrections on manuscript. But the white figure, set in the blaze of the sunny blue water, did not escape the notice of passersby on the high road near the Riformati; and, finding Himself under observation, He returned to the seclusion of the garden. His memory flew back to the time when people used to jeer at Him for His habit of writing letters, letters which explained a great deal too much, to blind men who could not see, to deaf adders who would not hear. He chuckled at the thought that those same people would read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest, every word and every dotted i of His letters now⁠—letters which were not going to be painfully voluminously conscientiously persuasive any more: but dictatorial. He wrote sheet after sheet; and emended them: He returned to His room and burned all the rejected preliminaries; and He took a fair copy with Him to Rome on the night of the twenty-eighth of April.

Early on the morning of the thirtieth, at a secret audience in the new throne-room, Caerleon introduced five rather startled very dishevelled and travel-stained priests, five priests who had undergone a mental shock. Mr. Semphill, with a white close-cropped head and the face of a clean pink schoolboy, contrived to remind himself that he was in the presence of the most amusing man he ever had met. He bucked-up; and made his obeisance with an aplomb which was a combination of the Service, Teddy Hall, an Anglican curacy and a Pictish rectory. Mr. Sterling, a stalwart brown schoolmaster, very handsome except for a mole on his nose, hid his feelings in calm inscrutability. Mr. Whitehead, a levelheaded commonsense Saxon, golden-hearted, who never had had any wild oats for sowing, observed reticence in a matter which was beyond his comprehension. Mr. Leighton, plump, clean, curly-haired, blinked genially and waited. Mr. Carvale, a lithe intense little Gael, with the black hair and rose-white skin and the delicate lips and self-contained mien of a dreamer, looked upon his old college-acquaintance with clear eyes of burning blue. Some of the five had the remembrance of sins of omission at the back of their minds. None remembered sins of commission. All were wondering what was required of them⁠—what the devil it all meant, as Semphill secularly put it. If any of them expected allusion to the past, they must have been disappointed. Hadrian gave them no sign of recognition. It was the Supreme Pontiff Who very apostolically received them and addressed them.

“Reverend Sirs, Our will is to have such assistance in the work of Our Apostolature as the organs of sense can render to the mind, or as the experimentalist can render to the theorist. For reasons known unto Ourself, We have selected you. Believing you to be single-hearted in this one thing, namely the service of God, We call upon you to devote yourselves actually to the service of His Vicegerent. To this end, We would attach you to Our Person in a singular and intimate connection, by raising you to the cardinal-diaconate. Those of you who believe yourselves unable to do God-service better in this than in your present capacity, can depart without forfeiting Our goodwill. The conscience of each man is his own sole true light. Far be it from Us to interfere with any man’s prerogative as his own director in so grave a matter.”

The five remained standing, saying nothing. Semphill was sincerely delighted: the literary quality, the tops-i’-th’-turfy straightforwardness of the allocution gave him the keenest joy. The others felt obedience to be their plain duty: for George Arthur Rose never had been wantonly fantastic, there always had been a fundamental element of reason about his eccentricities, he never had revolved at random but always round some deliberately fixed point. And, to plain priests, the voice of the Successor of St. Peter was a call, to be answered, and obeyed.

The Pope addressed Semphill. “Your Reverency quite legitimately hoped to end your days at St. Gowff’s?”

“True⁠—(hum!)⁠—Holiness: but I may be translated elsewhere by a telegraph’s notice from my diocesan.”

“You are not yet a missionary-rector?”

“Merely a poor master-of-arts of Oxford.”

“But you have been at St. Gowff’s as long as We can remember.”

Mr. Semphill choked a chuckle. “Having a little patrimony, Holiness, I made my will in favour of the archdiocese of St. Gowff’s and Agneda; and I did not omit to mention the fact to my archbishop. I happened also to say that, in the event of my being moved from St. Gowff’s, I should be compelled to make another will: but of course I did not contemplate being moved as far as Rome.”

Hadrian turned to Mr. Sterling. “The last words, which We said to Your Reverency, were that you had cause to be ashamed of yourself.”

“One had cause, Holy Father.”

“To you, Our invitation is a means of repairing a single small defect in a praiseworthy career.”

“It shall be repaired, Holy Father.”

To the others the Pope said nothing: for He saw their clean souls.

In the Sacred Consistory, the Supreme Pontiff dictated to consistorial advocates a pontifical act, denouncing the Lord Francis Talacryn, Bishop of Caerleon, as Cardinal-presbyter of the Title of the Four Holy Crowned Ones:⁠—the Lord George Semphill as Cardinal-deacon of St. Mary-in-Broad Street:⁠—the Lord James Sterling as Cardinal-deacon of St. Nicholas-in-the-Jail-of-Tully:⁠—the Lord George Leighton as Cardinal-deacon of The Holy Angel-in-the-Fish-Market:⁠—the Lord Gerald Whitehead as Cardinal-deacon of St. George-of-the-Golden-Sail:⁠—the Lord Robert Carvale as Cardinal-deacon of St. Cosmas and St. Damian. Then the six were brought in, and sworn of the College: their heads were hatted, their fingers ringed with sapphires, their mouths were closed and opened by the Pope; and they retired in ermine and vermilion.

What their emotions were, need not be inquired. Indeed, they had little time for emotion, seeing that during the rest of the day they sat in the secret chamber, writing writing writing from Hadrian’s dictation. In the evening, Whitehead and Carvale put on their old cassocks and posted a carriage-full of letters at San Silvestro. These all were sealed with the Fisherman’s Ring; and, as they were addressed to kings, emperors, prime-ministers, editors of newspapers, and heads of various religious denominations, it was considered undesirable to trouble Prince Minimo, the pontifical postmaster, with material for gossip. Meanwhile Hadrian and Cardinal Semphill sat in the Vatican marconigraph office alone with the operators; and the Pope dictated, while the experts’ fingers expressed His words in dots and dashes in London and New York. By consequence, what His Holiness called “the five decent newspapers” came out on the first of May with an apostolic epistle, a pontifical bull, and editorial leaders thereupon.

The world found the “Epistle to All Christians” very piquant, not on account of novelty, but because of the nude vivid candour with which old and trite truths were enunciated dogmatically. Christianity, the Pope proclaimed, was a great deal more than a mere ritual service. It extended to every part of human life; and its rules must regulate Christians in all matters of principle and practice. He laid great stress on the assertion of the principle of the Personal Responsibility of the Individual. It was quite unavoidable, quite incapable of being shifted on to societies or servants. Each soul would have to render its own account to its Creator. In connection with the last doctrine, He denounced as damnable nonsense the fashionable heresy which is crystallized in the Quatrains of Edward Fitzgerald,

O Thou, Who didst with pitfall and with gin
Beset the road I was to wander in,
Thou wilt not, with predestined evil, round
Enmesh; and then impute my fall to sin.
O Thou, Who man of baser earth didst make;
And, e’en with paradise, devise the snake;⁠—
For all the sin, wherewith the face of man
Is blackened, man’s forgiveness give⁠—and take!

He described those lines as the whine of a whimpering coward: pertinently inquiring whether a human father would be blameable, who, having taught his boy to swim, should fling him into the sea that he might have the merit of fighting his own way to shore where the rope was ready at hand? He condemned all attempts at uniformity as unnatural crimes, because they insulted the Divine intelligence Which had deigned to differentiate His creatures. He declared that God’s servants were to be known by their broad minds, generous hearts, and staunch wills.

“The Church of God is not narrow, nor ‘Liberal,’ but Catholic with room for all: for ‘there are diversities of gifts.’ ”

It was the individual soul which must be saved; and it was that which was addressed in the Evangel. He considered the immense strength of the single verse,

“Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.” Hence He would have no barrier erected between Christians of the Roman Obedience and Christians of other denominations. The following passage, containing His Own idea of His relation to other men, attracted much attention:⁠—

“It is in no man’s power to believe what he list. No man is to be blamed for reasoning in support of his own religion: for he only is accountable. ‘Other sheep I have, which are not of this fold’; and these deserve more care and love, but not cheap pity, nor insulting patronage, nor irritated persecution: for if, as has been said, a man shall follow Christ’s Law, and shall believe His Words according to his conscientious sense of their meaning, he will be a member of Christ’s Flock although he be not within the Fold. And, though We know that he understands Christ’s Words amiss, yet that is no reason for Our claiming any kind of superiority over an honest man, the purpose of whose heart and mind is to obey and to be guided by Christ. Such an one is a Christian and Our good brother, a servant of God; and, if he will have Us, We, by virtue of Our Apostolature, are his servant also.”

The conclusion of the “Epistle” contained a very striking admonition addressed to members of His Own communion, to the effect that the being Christian did not confer any title to physical or external dominion, but rather the contrary. Perhaps the peroration is worthy of quotation:⁠—

“Persuade, if ye can persuade, and if the world will permit you to persuade: but seek not to persuade. Better to live so that men will convince themselves through the contemplation of your ensample. That way only satisfaction lies. Accept, but claim not, obedience. Seek not suffering, nor avoid it: but, when it is deigned to you, most stringently conceal it and tolerate it with jubilation, remembering the words of Plato where it is written ‘Help cometh through pain and suffering, nor can we be freed from our iniquity by any other means!’ Scorn not the trite. Scorn no brother-man. Scorn no thing. Yet, if ye (being men) must scorn, then scorn the enemies of God and the King, which be the Devil and Dishonour and Death.”

An even greater sensation, than that caused by the “Epistle to All Christians,” attended the simultaneous publication of the Bull Regnum Meum. It personally was addressed to the very last person in all the world by whom, under ordinary circumstances, a communication from the Vatican might have been expected. Hadrian VII, Bishop, Servant of the servants of God, sent Greeting and Apostolic Benediction to His Well-beloved Son⁠—the Majesty of Victor Emanuel III, King of Italy. “My Kingdom is not of this world” was the text of the Bull, which the Pope began with an unwavering defence of the Divine Revelation, the Church, Peter, and the Power of the Keys. So far, He spoke as a theologian. Then, with lightning swiftness, He assumed the role of the historian. His theme was the Forged Decretals or Donation of Constantine, which first were promulgated in a breve which His Holiness’s predecessor, Hadrian I, addressed to His Majesty’s predecessor (in a certain sense), the Emperor Charlemagne. He recited the well-known facts that these Decretals, though undoubtedly forged, had been forged merely as the intellectual pastime of an exiled archbishop’s idle hours, and with no nefarious intent whatever. He showed how that, during four centuries, no doubt as to their authenticity had been entertained; and how that three more centuries had elapsed before evidence had been collected sufficing to justify their being thrown overboard from the Barque of Peter to lighten the ship. Then, He continued, the Pope was the sovereign of a patrimony of which He held no title-deeds. A right more inexpugnable than prescriptive right was deemed desirable; and Alexander VI and Julius II bound the Patrimony to Peter by military conquest. So it remained until the unification of Italy under the House of Savoy, when those territories, formerly known as the States of the Church, were absorbed by the new kingdom. Thus far Hadrian pursued the argument; and then turned to a disquisition on the worldly rights of Christians, the purport of which perhaps most luminously is expressed in the following sentences:⁠—

“We use worldly things till they are wanted by the world: then we will relinquish them without even so much as a backward thought. For we all are clearly marked to get that which we give. Nothing is irrevocable on this orb of earth. Nothing is final: for, after this world is the world to come. Therefore, let us move, let us gladly move, move with the times, really move. God always is merciful.”

Hence, as Supreme Pontiff, Hadrian would practise the principle of renunciation. He would renounce everything which another would take, because “My Kingdom is not of this world.” And, first of all, in order to remove a bone of contention, He made a formal and unconditional renunciation of the claim to temporal sovereignty and of the civil-list provided by the Law of Guarantees. At the same time, He would not be understood as casting any slight upon His predecessors Who had followed other counsels:⁠—

“They were responsible to God: They knew it: He and They were the judges of Their acts. We, on Our part, in Our turn, act as We deem best. We know Our responsibility and shrink not. We are God’s Vicegerent; and this is Our will. Given at Rome, at St. Peter’s by the Vatican, on this ninth day of Our Supreme Pontificate.”

The formal publication of the “Epistle” and the “Bull” occurred in the second consistory which met at the abnormal hour of 6 a.m. on Mayday. Hadrian read the two documents in that distinct minor monotone of His which was so intensely and yet so impersonally magisterial. By itself the tone was aggravating. The matter also was exasperating; and the pontifical manner added exacerbation. He seemed to be expecting opposition. That came from Ragna. If the Pope no longer was a sovereign, where did the Secretary of State come in? Was he dismissed? Oh dear no, he certainly was not dismissed: only, instead of playing at statesmanship in regard to states over which he had no control at all, and which were really rather commodiously managed by the secular power, he was requested to turn his attention to the increase of business which inevitably now would come into his department.

“The world is sick for the Church,” said Hadrian; “but She never would confess it as long as the Church posed as Her rival.”

Nevertheless the thing was a blow, a blow that was heavy and strong. Half the College put on an indifferent noncommittal air: the other half roared anathemas and execrations. And Ragna howled,

“Judas, Judas, this shall not be!”

In a lull, Hadrian coldly mewed “It is; and it shall be.”

He flung down the steps of the throne a bundle of advance-copies of the Roman morning journals. Vermilion faces stooped to them. There were the “Epistle” and the “Bull” in the vernacular. Serafino-Vagellaio pounced-upon an announcement in Il Popolo Romano to the effect that

“by the courteous condescension of the Holy Father Himself, we are enabled to present to our readers these authentic and momentous acts simultaneously with the Times, the Morning Post, the Globe, the St. James’s Gazette, and the New York Times, the splendid journals of the magnanimous English, to which race (the sempiternal friend of Italy) we owe so grand and so enlightened a pontiff.”

Undoubtedly the thing was done: for the world knew it; and, knowing it, would not let it be undone. There was no cardinal, however infuriated, who was not sufficiently serpentine to recognize the columbine as the attitude most appropriate to the circumstances. The first mad idea which had seized the rebellious ones, the idea of suppressing the pontifical decrees by physical force, was laid aside. There no doubt were other means of nullifying them later. And Their Eminencies dispersed to say their masses with an air which made the Pope feel like a very naughty tiresome little boy indeed, said Hadrian to Cardinal Leighton.

The question of Edward Lancaster worried Hadrian considerably: for the simple reason that, while He did not want to tire Himself by a renewal of relations with this individual, decency demanded something. He discussed the position with Courtfield and Talacryn, neither of whom were able to appreciate His difficulty. Thrown back upon His Own resources, He made a cigarette very carefully, a long fat one with the tobacco tucked into the paper cylinder with a pencil, and with neatly twisted ends, resembling a small white sausage; and smoked it through. Then He wrote a letter, telling Lancaster that his offering had been accepted and applied, assuring him of the pontifical goodwill and of a pleasant reception in case he should feel bound to present himself in Rome, and conferring Apostolic Benediction and a plenary indulgence at the hour of death. This, He enclosed in a gold snuffbox with a device of diamonds on the lid, which the recipient might put upon his mantelpiece with other curious monstrosities.

Orezzo and Ragna appeared to have exchanged ethics: for, whereas the latter had been a pontifical right hand while Orezzo had shut-up himself in the Chancery, now it was Orezzo who watched the Pope while Ragna kept aloof in vermilion sulks. It was not that his occupation was gone: but he wished to emphasize (by withdrawing it) his indispensability. As for the others, they wonderfully retired into their shells. Hadrian kept his new creatures in fairly close attendance; and the nine Compromissaries always were ready to make themselves agreeable when they were in Rome. The Pope wished and tried to be on friendly terms with them; and failed, as He always failed. He could not show Himself friendly.

Crowds of English visitors appeared; and would have been distracting. They dotted themselves about the Ducal Hall and Hadrian walked among them. At one of these receptions, the pontifical glance lighted, on entering, on a dark gaunt Titan seamed with concealed pain, who was accompanied by a quiet fastidious English lady (wife and mother), and three children, two glorious girls and a proud shy English boy. They were a typical group, typical of all that is best⁠—trial, culture, moderate success, and English quality. Hadrian at once shook hands with them.

“Please wait till the others are gone,” He said; and passed on to a cocky little gentleman with a pink eye, and a plump barefaced party who tried to stand easily in the cross-legged pose of the male photograph of 1864. These sank to their knees, but stood up again at a word.

“Well, Holy Father, who would have thought,” etcetera, from the first; and “Oh, I’m sure I shall never dare to call Your Holiness ‘Boffin’ again” from the second.

“Yes you do,” replied Hadrian; and gave them a blessing, to which the plump one nervously responded,

“Quite so, I’m sure, as it were!”

Another couple kneeled, a weird brief-bodied man in a pince-nez and a small suppressed woman with beautiful shortsighted eyes. They were raised; and the man would chatter like a hailstorm, wittily and with Gallic gesticulation, and quite insincerely. They were blessed; and the Pontiff went-on (with some elevation of gait) to the others.

When the audience was over a slim gentleman in scarlet, with the delicate pensive beauty of a St. John the Divine by Gian Bellini, conducted the English family to the apostolic antechamber. Here Hadrian offered them some fruit and wine; and showed them the view from the windows.

“Now perhaps Mrs. Strong would like to see the garden,” He presently said.

It was a very happy thought. His Holiness carried His little yellow cat, and they all went down together; and strolled about the woods and the box-alleys and the vineyards. They picked the flowers; and the children picked the fruit. They admired the peacocks: and rested on white marble hemicycles in the sun-flecked shade of cypresses; and they talked of this, that, and the other, as well as these and those. A chamberlain came through the trees, and delivered a small veiled salver to the gentleman who followed the pontifical party at fifty paces. At the moment of departure he came near. The salver contained five little crosses of gold and chrysoberyls set in diamonds. Three were elaborate and two severely plain. Hadrian presented them to His guests.

“You will accept a memorial of this happy day; and of course” (with that rare dear smile of His) “you will not expect the Pope to give you anything but popery. Goodbye, dear friends, goodbye.”

“How He has improved!” said the dark girl, as they went out.

“O mother, and did you see the buckles on His shoes!” said the fair one.

“I call Him a topper,” said the boy.

“He isn’t a bit changed,” said the wife to the silent husband.

“I think that He has found His proper niche at last,” the great man answered.

Percy Van Kristen arrived; and was brought into the secret chamber. Though only a little over thirty, he looked as old as Hadrian. The glowing freshness of his olive-skin had faded: but his superb eyes were as brightly expectant and his small round head as cleanly black as ever. He looked tired, but wholesome; and he was immaculately groomed. The Pope said a few words of greeting and of remembrance; and asked him to speak of himself. Van Kristen was shy: but not unwilling. Leading questions elicited that he was one of that pitiable class of men for whom the gods have provided everything but a career. Majority had brought him three-quarters of a million sterling. There was no necessity for him to go into commerce. Politics were impossible for respectable persons. He was too old for the services. The fact was, he had not the natural energy which would have hewn out a career⁠—a career in the worldly sense⁠—for himself; and by consequence, the world had shoved him aside on to the shelf of objects whose functions are purely decorative. His mode of life was that of a man of fashion, simple, exquisite. Perhaps he read a great deal; and, of course, his home took up most of his time⁠—but that was a secret. Hadrian deftly extracted from him that he had founded and was maintaining a home for a hundred boys of his city, where he provided a complete training in electrical engineering and a fair start in life. His splendid eyes glittered as he spoke of this. It seemed that he had kept his own world in entire ignorance of his ardent effort to be useful; and one naturally enjoys talking of one’s own affairs when the proper listener at last is encountered. No: he never had felt inclined to marry and rear a family of his own. He did not think that that sort of thing was much in his line. Yes: after leaving Oxford, he had had some thoughts of the priesthood. But Archbishop Corrie had laughed him out of that. He was not clever enough for the priesthood. That was the real truth, in his private opinion. Oh yes, he would like it very well⁠—as much as anything: but really he hardly felt himself equal to it. He didn’t want to seem to push himself forward in any way. Yes: the Dynam House could get on quite well without him. They were fortunate in having a capable manager whom everyone liked; and his own share didn’t amount to much more than playing fives with the boys, and paying the bills, and finding out and getting all the latest dodges. If he could run over and look round the place, say twice a year, say two months in the year, he was quite willing to take up his abode with Hadrian, if His Holiness really wanted him. As a cardinal-deacon? Oh, that would be a daisy! But⁠—sorry: he never did understand chaff. Hadrian was serious. Van Kristen’s grand virginal eyes attentively considered the Pontiff. Then, with that strangely courtly gracious manner which was his natural gift, (and due to the perfect proportion of his skeleton), contrasting so weirdly with the normal nasality of his speech, he said,

“Wal: I expect I won’t be much good to You: but You’re the master; and, if You really want me, I guess I’ll have a try.”

And he went straight into retreat at the Passionists’ on the Celian Hill.